


Strange Meeting

by MicrosoftWordDidThis



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Carmilla AU, Carmilla Politics AU, F/F, Hollstein - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 18:55:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3458099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MicrosoftWordDidThis/pseuds/MicrosoftWordDidThis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carmilla Politics AU. Carmilla is a "heartless" republican who is in the military, while Laura is a "bleeding-heart" liberal, who is defintely against war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a poem by Wilfren Owen that had a pretty deep impact on me. It humanizes war in a way that a lot of other attempts fail at.
> 
> Definitely dropped half a line from "A Few Good Men" in there as well.

“How would you like your coffee?” The barista asks. 

“Black,” you respond. 

“Ew,” Some girl behind you in line lets out. A little confused, you look back at her.

“Oh my goodness! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to say that out loud!” She says, clearly embarrassed. 

“No. Now I’m curious. Why is that gross?” You ask her. 

“It’s just…no cream, no sugar? It needs flavor. Otherwise it’s so…dark and bitter. It’s kind of sad, almost.” Her response throws you off a little, and she is definitely embarrassed by  
her own candidness as she blushes deeper with every word. 

“Well, maybe I’m dark and bitter,” You joke. 

“Unless you’re a republican, I doubt that’s the case,” she jokes, but her pre-anticipatory laugh stops when she realizes you’re not laughing too. 

“I am a republican,” You respond seriously, realizing that this is L.A, so she probably wasn’t used to that. The girl doesn’t say “ew” aloud this time, but her face is screaming it. 

“You’re kidding,” is all she can get out. 

“Why would I joke about that?” You ask. 

“It’s just that, you seem like an intelligent woman, why would you be a republican?” She retorts. 

What the hell? You try not to let the anger show in your voice, but it’s a lost cause. “I am. That’s exactly why I am a republican. Let me guess, you’re some bleeding-heart liberal, out to save world from the evils of gasoline and non-recyclable materials, one Bonaroo concert at a time?” 

“Excuse me?” Yea, this girl is visibly offended, but you don’t care. “If you mean I care about human rights, and our quality of life, and freedom of choice, then yea, I am a liberal,” she shoots back, “And at least I’m not some rigid bit—bad person that wants to revert society back to the land before women’s rights.” Oh, she’s a fire cracker that you just lit. 

“Oh is that what Rachel Maddow tells you about us?” You can’t hold back your sarcasm. “You have no idea what you’re even talking about. What, with your ‘save the world,’ peace and love,’ ‘war is evil’ crap.” You’re a little impressed by the spot-on impression you’ve made of this girl’s voice. 

“War is evil! You can’t honestly tell me it’s good!” She is getting heated, but her response has you just as angry. Ok, now you are bitter. 

“You know nothing about war!” You start. “How many have you been in? Tell me, how long were you in? Which war? ‘Nam, Iraq, Afghanistan? Or was it World War II, gee, you look young for your age!” Sarcasm is popping out of every syllable you utter. 

“None. I don’t want any part of it! That’s bad. And it shouldn’t exist!” She responds. Typical. Liberals: can’t live with ‘em…could probably get by without ‘em…except you like Hollywood movies, damn. 

“Exactly” you lash back, “you’re a child, and you know nothing. Not about war, not about anything, and certainly not about what it takes to survive as a successful and secure nation in a world of threats,” you tell her, harshly. And as you wait for her response, you can’t help but notice your adrenaline rush might not just be from the argument. Despite this girl’s idealistic views, she’s quite attractive. She’s sexy but adorable too. And her passion for her beliefs is definitely admirable. At least she’s not one of those “peace lovers” that passively accept politics as they are and have no idea what they’re talking about. And her hair is really ni—

“Your coffee,” she interrupts your thoughts. 

“What?” You ask, confused. 

“Your coffee,” she points behind you, “it’s ready, and so is mine.”

“But you didn’t even order,” you say as you grab yours and hers. 

“I come here every morning. I don’t need to.” She smiles proudly. Her demeanor immediately changes when she takes a sip of her coffee. So she can be nice if you just get some  
coffee in her. Eh, makes sense. You’re the same way. 

“Oh. Well…” You contemplating your thoughts about her looks versus your hate toward her views. You’re going to need more time to weigh this. “Then you should know a good  
spot for us to sit and continue our conversation…uhh..” You squint at the name on her cup, “Laura.” 

She looks confused, but her smile wins out. Yep, coffee makes a difference. “Are you sure you wanna do that? I know how sensitive conservatives can be.” She jokes. 

“I think I can handle it,” You smile back. How often do you get to discuss politics with people? Real politics, not “Rove is gossiping about Clinton again” politics. She leads you to the back corner, stopping at a mirror to make sure her hair is in place along the way. You look the other way as you follow her, avoiding the mirror. You sit across from her at a small, two-seater table. 

“So,” she looks at your cup now, “Carmilla, what turned you into a republican?” She says as if you’ve become Darth Vader. 

“Obviously because I hate the environment…and people, especially people,” you joke. Laura laughs into her coffee as she takes another sip, and you’re surprised by the light-heartedness of your own admission. You never joke around when it comes to politics, but something about this girl pulls out something in you. You can’t identify it. 

“How charming,” Laura jokes, but a her eyes give this look that maybe a part of her is serious. Laura almost seems in awe of how blunt you are, especially considering your views aren’t too popular around here. Well, a mix of awe and offense. She’s definitely still offended by your comments earlier. 

“And who gave you the liberal curse?” You offer back, smiling. 

“Morality,” She laughs, and you laugh too even though you hate her answer. 

“Goodness, you’re naïve,” You tell her, and she starts to look slightly offended again. 

“And you’re heartless,” She retaliates. Here it goes again. 

“Heartless because I think everyone should have the opportunity to experience democracy, or because I want this nation to still exist in a hundred years, which it won’t if we  
continue letting the government fall into a debilitating debt?” You return. 

“Heartless because you think war will bring peace, and I’m naïve? And because you’d rather see a hard-working single parent starve to death than a superfluous CEO pay an extra few bucks in taxes,” She says sharply. Damn. 

“Progressive tax is your answer, really? Just tax the successful ones more and that’ll solve our nation’s debt.” You mock her. 

“And what do you propose? Since you’re soooo intelligent and all.” Laura can apparently play the sarcasm game too. It’s kind of endearing. Most girls leave at this point, angry and flustered. 

“A flat tax rate. We’re all receiving the nation’s benefits, so we should all offer the same dues.” You answer honestly, but Laura’s face is getting redder. 

“You can’t seriously tell me you think someone making billions of dollars a year should pay the same amount as someone making less than 10,000 a year?” Laura asks in disbelief. 

“You do realize that the amount isn’t the same, just the percentages, right? So it’s naturally proportional to the income level.” You respond. Maybe now she’ll see the light. 

“And I’m sure those billionaires won’t find anyyyy loopholes within that policy, right? Because Mitt Romney neverrrr paid less than the average American in taxes by a margin that would make anyone rethink the entire socio-economic structure that led us to this point, right?” Laura rages. Damn, girl knows her stuff. It’s actually kind of…hot? Not her views, of course. But her passion, her intelligence, you like that. 

“And besides, you want to talk about debt?” Laura continues, “How about that war of yours, huh?” And now you’re getting angry again, because that war is yours, and it hits you personally where the other subjects don’t. 

“You’re against the war.” You meant it as a question, but you knew the answer as you said the words, so it came out more as a despondent statement, and Laura catches it. You expect her to start spewing hateful rhetoric about the evils of war, but she pauses for a second. Laura is trying to read your face, and she can tell this topic is pulling at you a little more than the others. Your face is still down after asking your almost-question. 

“I mean, from what I’ve seen on the news…it doesn’t seem like the best idea. Unless you had any different insight?” And Laura’s asking earnestly this time. The sarcasm has expired. 

“If I look at a painting, will you see the same thing I see?” You ask her. 

“What kind of painting?” Laura asks back. 

“Abstract.” You say. 

“Probably not.” Laura’s voice is matching the softness of yours now. 

“It’s like war. It’s messy. And the media shows you images and clips of it, but it’s messy, and one interpretation will be different from another, and all of those interpretations might be different from reality.” You say, not sure how else to explain it, hoping that she gets it. They never get it. But for some reason, you hope especially hard that this one does. 

“I can see what you mean,” Laura offers. She’s still against it, but you think she gets it. And that’s more than enough. You look back up at her, still somewhat shocked. 

“Were you…ever a part of it?” Laura asks. She can sense the difference in your voice on this subject. She can feel it in the air and in your tone and on your eyes. 

“I’m in the military. I’ve been in for five years. I’m on leave right now, so I’m visiting home for a month.” You admit. 

“Oh,” Laura starts, and she’s visibly unsure of what to say because she’s not used to be around anyone other than her ‘peace protestor’ buddies, and she’s against war, but the girl in front of her is a contradiction to everything she’s against about the people involved in it. The girl in front of her is intelligent, and witty, and funny, and can laugh about politics, yet get serious about it as well. In fact, looking at Carmilla, Laura realizes that the girl in front of her is actually really attractive, like gorgeous, which is partially why she was willing to keep the conversation going with someone who had such tasteless views. 

“Well, that’s cool.” Laura offers, still unsure of what words would have worked best. 

Your head tilts, confused by her response. You’re waiting for the how-could-you-be-a-part-of-that, but it never comes. Laura’s just sitting there smiling. “You know for a liberal, you’re pretty likable” you admit to her. You don’t really know how to tell someone you like them or that you’re into them, so you hope this will do. You doubt it, though. Laura probable has some socialist society organizer sweeping her off her feet in “redistribution” talk. Gross. 

“Thanks. You know, I might like you too.” Laura replies. And she understood what you meant. That’s new. 

You guys go on discuss the military for another two hours after you leave the coffee shop, walking together around the mall next door and through the park that’s on the way to the parking lot. She asks you all sort of questions about it, not the usual ones most people ask which sort of erk you, like “Have you killed people?” and “How many?” But different questions, like “What keeps you from leaving?” and “What was the wackiest thing you did off duty during your deployment?” You guys get into deeper aspects of that conversation as well, but you appreciate how she seems to never hold anything you say against you. It makes you comfortable, and you offer her a little more of yourself with each new response of her acceptance. By the time you get to the parking lot, you offer to walk her to her car. 

“I had a surprisingly good time today,” Laura says to you. 

“You’re not so bad yourself, hippie,” You joke seriously. She smiles at that, and looks up at you, and you think she might be thinking what you’re thinking, but you can’t tell, and you’re not ready for this, you’re too awkward for this, and you don’t know what to do so you just…

“So uh try not to wear yourself out at your next wallstreet protest,” you mentally hit yourself on the head for that one. And you don’t understand why it is that you have no problem going toe-to-toe with terrorists, but a cute girl causes you to completely lose it under pressure. 

Laura laughs and she can sense what you really want underneath your words. 

“Shut up,” Laura smiles, and she grabs your collar to pull you in. Her lips find yours as you lean into her, and wow. Wow. Wow. She is a good kisser. A damn good kisser. You remember this one time you set up a claymore mine backwards and had about a millisecond to fix it before it went off, but even that didn’t compare to the rush you were feeling right now. 

“Here’s my number,” Laura says as she pulls away, writing it on your hand. 

“Are you busy Friday?” You ask, and you look more like a puppy than the stoic conservative you were earlier. 

“Depends. What did you have in mind?” Laura smirks. And she’s got you. 

“Um…movies?” You offer, which seems good because she’s nodding to the suggestion as she gets in her car. Yes.  
\--  
You guys decide to take a stroll along the strip of shops nearby after the movie. 

“The night is young…” you joke. 

“And so are we,” Laura finishes. 

You both laugh at how lame you guys are for saying something so cliché. Orwell would be turning in his grave if he ever heard, you think to yourself. You’re about to walk into an ice cream shop when you notice Laura begin to tense up and come to a complete halt. 

“Hey,” you turn to ask her, “what’s wro—”

“Well, whaddya know? Is this why you left me? I wasn’t good enough for ya?” A strange girl, in boat shoes, ripped jeans, and an American Apparel “Save Water” shirt says, looking straight at Laura. She’s surrounded by a few friends, and maybe that’s what gives her the courage to be a total dick, but you’re not sure. 

“Danny, chill. I broke up with you before I even knew her,” Laura responds, her face down. 

“Whatever. I guess I’m just surprised you moved on so quickly. I didn’t take you for one to just whore around,” Danny retaliates, clearly still not over the break up. 

Did she just? Did she just call Laura a? Oh hell no. You can’t stop yourself from stepping in now, your face is almost sweating it has become so hot. You take a step in front of Laura, toward Danny. 

“What the fuck did you just call her?” You direct at Danny. You didn’t intend to curse, but that’s pretty an article in your vocabulary, like “the.” Plus, you’re fuming. 

“Ohhhh! Look at this! You’ve got a knee brace on, you really wanna go?” Danny challenges. 

And you’re pissed. Laura is innocent and sweet, and the fact that someone would ever talk to her like this drives you insane. You lose the filter you reserve for civilian settings, and the words come falling out. “Listen jackass, I kill for a living. You think a little ligament is gonna stop me from beating your ass?”

Danny’s mouth drops, but she starts to laugh, not taking you seriously. She thinks it’s just some heated trash talk, so she keeps going. “Puh-lease, I’ll rip you apart,” Danny replies as she moves toward you to make the first punch. Before she even has a chance, you grab her elbow, turn her around while pulling her in, throw your right arm around her neck with practiced precision, gripping your left shoulder while your left hand pushed slowly against her head. You’re choking her out. Danny struggles for a second, but passes out fairly quickly, and you let her drop to the ground. 

“Don’t you ever talk to Laura like that again,” You tell her coldly, fully aware that she’s unconscious. You look up at her friends that have become frozen at the sight. “She’ll regain consciousness in a minute or so, so one of you should get some water for her when that happens, and lean her against the bench right there because she’ll be dizzy,” you instruct them. 

You don’t even look in Laura’s direction. You just let a little piece of yourself slip out in a place where you shouldn’t have, and your regret is building into shame. “Let’s head back to the car,” you say, and you grab her hand, avoiding eye contact the entire walk back. This is not how this night was supposed to go. But of course, the inevitable had to happen. It’s hard hiding yourself 24/7. You escape from yourself sometimes. Damnit. And now this is ruined. This is how you always ruin things. You think you can be normal, and tuck yourself away, but it comes out, mocking your attempt. With every girl, this happens. You just can’t win. Tonight was just another frustrating reminder. 

“Listen, I understand if you want to walk away now. Really, it’s ok. I get it,” You finally break the silence once you two are in the car. 

And you really, really do. You’re used t to this. You’re prepared for this. This is usually the point that they all walk away, and you don’t blame them. Why would they stay? You do things that would land most people in jail or on death row. You do what you’re against, yet you’re for it. It’s complicated. You know that that. It’s uncomfortable. You know that too well. To them, you’re a monster, a murderer. You have killed someone’s father, or son, or brother. And the worst part is that you were proud of it. You were doing a service for the sake of justice, for security, and in all irony, for peace. You enjoyed the moment you took that bastard out, and you were proud of it, but still disgusted knowing that was a human being too. That was somebody’s lover, friend, companion. You took that from somebody. And that conflicting sick feeling stirs up in you again. You can barely deal with it, how could you expect anyone else to? Anyone else who doesn’t do what you do too, that is. Your stomach feels like you’ve swallowed expired eggs when you look up to her, waiting for her to step out of the car, for the familiar, yet polite, “No, it’s not that, but I think this might not work.” It’s not that, hah, it’s always that. But she looks back at you with a face you’ve never seen, with a reaction that doesn’t fit into this algorithm, and now you have no idea what to expect from her mouth. 

“Hey, hey, I said I like you,” she starts. What? Wait, what is happening? Laura continues, “And I didn’t mean I like you at dinner parties when you’re laughing at some shallow pun my friend makes to be polite, or that I like you when you’re holding your tongue at peace rallies, or that I like you when you’re choking back the part of yourself that isn’t deemed ‘socially acceptable’ or courteous. Fuck courtesy. I like you. All of you. And that means I like you when you’re ranting about how the world just needs to be a little more understanding of The O’Reilly Factor (she gives a fake gag at his name, jokingly…maybe a little seriously too); I like you when you’re watching the news, analyzing where drones were just sent to and whether that location was acceptable or not; I like you when you zone out at restaurants and contemplate parts of yourself that most people never have to. I like you, Carm.”

And that’s the trigger. You feel like you’re at a David Blane show, because you’ve never seen anything quite like this before, and you don’t believe it. Being gay can be isolating enough, but the path you’ve chose, this job (which is more of a lifestyle than a job) is a closet also. The military is this closet in which no one really understands unless they’ve been in it. Otherwise, they hate you; they judge you; they think everything you stand for is disgusting; they think you are disgusting (because this has become you are. This is not a 9 to 5 kind of gig).They never give you a chance to explain yourself. They just sit outside with their signs, reminding you God hates you, and they cling to their judgment and release it spit that hits harder than people realize when it splashes against your skin. They berate your accomplishments, and swear you’re making this world a worse place. It’s a camouflage closet, and you shut the door, lock it, melt the key. And you sit in that closet with your buddies who get it. They do this thing with you, and they’ve been out there with you, and they get. And you guys share things with each other that most civilians would find appalling. Those closet conversations with your buddies go deep down in places you don't talk about at parties, because outside of that close, no one would understand, and these guys don’t judge you. Still, it’s a small closet, and it gets lonely. And here is this girl, this beautiful girl who just took out some bolt cutters with a few simple words, and is opening that door. And your eyes are burning from the light outside that you’re not used to, and now they’re tearing up. Because everything you’ve been holding in and all of the parts of yourself you’ve been hiding are swelling up inside and beginning to pour out of your eyes. It’s been years. Years that you’ve been in this closet. And here she is, sitting in this car with you, giving you permission, for the first time in forever, to really breathe. But instead of air out your mouth, water is rushing out your eyes, and it’s not stopping. It is years of tears and scars flooding from your eyes. 

“Come here, hey. It’s okay. I got you. I’m not going anywhere, okay?” Laura says gently as she wraps her arms around you, squeezing the pain out of you. 

“B—bu---but I’m a terrible person. I—I’ve done…things, and you…” You stammer because you’ve lost all breath control at this point, and you hate yourself a little because you remember that the only way you have complete breath control is when you have an M-4 rested underneath your chin as your zeroing in on a target. 

“Stop that. Stop that right now. You have to contemplate morality in ways that most people never have to. You have to deal with parts of yourself that everyone has, but most people have the luxury of never knowing. And I see the looks you give children when passing them on the street or in the mall, like you’d give your life to protect them because you care that much. And you do. I don’t know many people like that, Carm. So in my book, you’re a darn good person.” Laura’s words fill the spaces around you that her arms don’t cover. All of the Angry Orchard and Vodka combined in this world could not make you feel this warm. God, don’t you know it.


End file.
